


Dear John

by iamacamera



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, D/s, Horrified Observers, Love Letters, M/M, Smut, Switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamacamera/pseuds/iamacamera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John amuse one another by sending letters while John is stuck in the hospital.  Written for the BBC Sherlock kinkmeme prompt "we just want porn".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dear John,

What did I tell you? WHAT did I tell you? I told you NOT to touch anything in that flat without asking me. Didn’t I? Now you’ve gone and gotten yourself quarantined. You really can’t imagine the inconvenience it’s causing for me to not have my assistant at my side as I work. Also the dishes are beginning to pile up.

You’re not even actually sick, are you? You break a jar and let out a virulently toxic compound and get yourself locked up for a week and me investigated for terrorist bloody activity and I BET you’re not even sick.

Well I hope you’re satisfied, sitting all by yourself in your hospital bed. All by yourself while I’m at home leaving my tea strainer on the coffee table and lying on your bed without taking off my shoes.

All by yourself, wearing that daft gown with no back, three channels on the telly, nobody allowed to come in your room. I can only imagine how you’re occupying your time, filthy creature.

I can only imagine how your hands are sliding under the stiff linen sheets, under the hospital gown, moving along your thighs. I can imagine how dead-quiet it is in your room, how cold and sterile and empty. Don’t you wish I were there with you? Next to you in your narrow bed, hot skin on your skin, fingers tangled in your hair? Going without my teeth on your earlobe for a whole week must be killing you. All you can do is lie there alone and pretend that it’s me pulling your hair and pinching your left nipple just a tiny bit harder than you like.

Most people can go a week without sex, you know. Most people aren’t so single minded that seven measly days without the feeling of fingers inside them wouldn’t be that much of a hardship. Most people don’t need to be flipped on their stomachs and fucked like needy sluts every day in order to be able to function, John. But not you, right?

Have you broken down yet? Are you touching yourself even as you read this? I hope you realize that the extent to which you need to be fucked well exceeds the norm. You are, aren’t you? You’re holding this letter with one hand and curling the other around your cock. I’m miles and miles away and you’re hard for me. You’re not going to see me for five more days and your arse is already feeling empty, feeling like a lone jigsaw puzzle piece for my cock.

Of course, I could come visit you. You know I can get into your ward – I’ve got the credentials. I could come in and throw you out of your bed by your hair and fill you with my cock on the hospital floor and make you come so hard you think you’re dying. Do you want me to come and gently feel your forehead for fever before I hold you down by the throat and come on your face, in your hair, on the hospital bed pillow?

If you want me to go to all the trouble of breaking into your ward, of course, you’ll have to write me back and ask very nicely. You’ll have to beg, because of course you’re not allowed to come until I get there. Let go of your cock. Hands above the bedspread, you whore. Now write me.

Yours,  
Sherlock


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Sherlock,

Can you not survive one solitary moment without being the center of attention? I may have read your letter once or twice. However, I must say I am enjoying the restful peace and quiet of this hospital without you in it.

I imagine you're in my room now, past noon still in your dressing gown, being childish and unsanitary with your feet everywhere. Can you find nothing better to do than sulk like a brat? I find it hard to believe you can't put your mind to better use: annoy Lestrade, play your violin, work on your experiments. If your usual diversions aren't keeping your attention in my absence, I venture that mashing your dirty boots in my sheets is far from the most disgusting thing you're doing in my bed.

Also, we did discuss your use of our kitchen as a laboratory, as well as, if you remember, your frankly alarming housekeeping habits, or lack thereof. You didn't listen. Perhaps you need daily reminders. Clearly, your parents indulged you. Don't expect the same from me.

Is that what you want? To be treated like a child? Act up and I'll put you in the corner facing the wall until you calm down. Misbehave and I will confiscate your toys: your board games, your violin bow, your experiments, your stash. You're not nearly as clever at hiding it as you'd like to think. I know about the slipper. Talk back and I will wash your mouth out with soap. And, if you insist on smoking, we'll have to do something about your oral fixation when I return home. I can think of better things to do with that mouth of yours.

Now: Take off your shoes. Shower. Clean the tea stains from the coffee table. Wash the dishes. LABEL YOUR BIO-HAZARDOUS EXPERIMENTS.

Sincerely,  
John

P.S. You may sleep in my bed. Make it afterward.


	3. Chapter 3

Dear John,

Your attempt at control speaks volumes. You're ashamed of yourself for perpetually giving in to me. Aren't you? I know you think, sometimes, you don't want this. But, my poor helpless filthy creature, there's no denying the way your body reacts to me, just my words. How hard I make you without even lifting a finger. Is it painful? Do you ache?

You haven't touched yourself since you put down that first letter. Have you? No, you're all too predictably obedient. Being handed orders, little soldier: it's familiar; it's safe.

Though perhaps you feel a little relief in solitary confinement. Knowing there are guards at the door, keeping you from this moment following at my heels like a dog in heat, does that make you feel safe as well? They can't protect you from your own desperate urges. They can't protect your dignity. That belongs to me. I can reach you now, and take it, even in your sterile hospital room. Do you know how?

I know what you think about women now, and other men too. You look at them and you wonder how they, how anyone, can walk down the street so easily -- living a half life -- ordering sandwiches, reading books, like there is nothing else in the world. When there is really only one thing in the world, in your narrow view, my adorable helpmate, they should be concerned with: the fact that they are not, at that very moment, getting their empty heads knocked up against my headboard by a vicious plowing; that they are not bruising the soft flesh at the back of their throats, spittle dripping from their nostrils, choking on a hard cock.

You are mine even when you are not because you touch them, fuck them even, and wonder if it's possible to truly have dignity unless you're being nightly reamed by me.

Look at your nurse, the one with the small waist and the upturned little breasts under her ill-fitting uniform, and tell me what you think.

Yours,  
Sherlock


	4. Chapter 4

Dearest brother,

A letter signed John Watson, M.D. found itself on my desk this morning. Either this was a mistake or you have finally driven one another to the nadir of your collective depravity. I hope, for all our sakes, for the former. I had Anthea burn it. Please find enclosed the charred remnants. The content was, to put it kindly, stunning in its obscenity. Do try to keep your pet on a shorter leash.

Warm regards,  
Mycroft


End file.
